


Femur

by grizzly_bear_bane



Series: Cigar Box [8]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Afterwork Pampering and Romance, Dom/sub Play, Domestic Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, New York, Object Insertion, Prostitution, Punishment play, Secretary Roleplay, Soulmates, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has a tough day with a billionaire client, but Eames makes up for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Femur

++

+

 

If Arthur tells Eames that he still has even one bad john who fucks him, Eames will not be pleased.

It’s not even that the man in charge of Proclus Global is a bad client. Those men are the kind of bad johns where they’re still no doubt kind and loving to their family and friends, just not the boys and girls they fuck. No, Arthur’s sure that Saito’s the type of guy who’s just a generally unpleasant  _person_ , because every single pet peeve Arthur has, this man is and does.

Saito is foremost an obsessive control freak. Everything about Arthur’s once-monthly employment as his secretary in his New York branch is planned down to the minute.

His clothes are all bought and delivered the day before by Saito's real secretary, right down to the cufflinks and tie. He makes Arthur wake up at 8am, even though the building opens at 6:30am. This way, Arthur is most undoubtedly late for work. This way, Arthur must be punished with a stern spanking for this infraction.

Arthur makes sure to tuck his briefcase neatly under his desk, just to the side of Saito’s large, imposing Mahogany table, before turning on the desktop. Saito has the script and schedule for their play waiting for Arthur on his computer. Arthur’s desk faces the window, because Saito knows the view distracts Arthur. His unavoidable daydreaming will earn him another spanking.

At 9:30am, Arthur almost forgets to take off his suit jacket, but the rest goes smoothly for a while. An email reminder is sent at 11:45am for Arthur to call Saito’s favorite deli for the man’s lunch, along with bathroom break ‘suggestions’ as an opportunity for Saito to look at Arthur’s ass as he leaves the office. Even work questions and phone calls are scripted from time to time. Saito is very thorough.

The first physical contact for the afternoon is always at Arthur’s desk once he asks the man a question. Saito stands behind Arthur’s chair, his hands on his shoulders, rubbing his arms as he speaks, until he loosens Arthur’s tie and the top buttons on his silk shirt.

“Mr. Saito? What are you doing?” he asks, softly and timid, the way Saito likes to hear him.

“You look tense,” Saito always answers, right before he seeks out Arthur’s nipples to tease.

This is Saito’s second problem. He loves touching Arthur everywhere that Arthur hates to be touched. It takes everything in him not to cringe away from those teasing fingers, but he puts on a show, gasps and melts, tilting his head so Saito can kiss his neck. Those fingertips circle, press, and flick over and over. He gasps, shy and quiet, his cheeks pink, all for Saito when he pinches his nipples to their hardest. When he’s had his fill for the time being, he retreats back to his desk for a conference call to his offices in Los Angeles and Tokyo.

Then, Saito picks up his phone again.

Arthur looks over the schedule. As nerve-wracking as it is to have so much of his life dictated and spelled out on his desktop, Arthur still doesn’t hate it as much as when Saito chooses to go off script. Saito’s impulses, Arthur has learned, are the worst out of all his clients’ ‘creative’ ideas.

“Mr. Fischer,” Saito says in greeting, “I hope I’m not interrupting your afternoon exercise.”

Arthur glances over, distracted from the Words With Friends game his been playing with Eames and Giovanni on his phone. Saito’s reclining in his chair, turned towards the closest highrise. It towers over the shorter building between them. It’s mostly all glass like Saito’s is. Arthur notices then the young man slowly pacing around in his private office with a phone to his ear. The building is still too far away to make out his face, but Arthur watches him lean against the glass. Even from here, the man looks bored.

Saito presses a button on the phone so Arthur can hear the other man speak.

“How is your secretary faring?”

Saito’s glance is dark. “Exceptionally, of course.”

Arthur already hates the other man just by his voice when he answers, “Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?”

“Ah, but soon, I think,” Saito says, surprising Arthur. He grins at Arthur’s arched brow. “Come here, Arthur.”

Arthur obeys. "Yes, Mr. Saito?" The window’s cold when Saito stands and guides him to it, pressing into his back so that Arthur’s flush against the glass for a moment. 

“He’s a little thing,” the man on the phone remarks, watching as Saito pulls Arthur’s hips back to slip his hands to the front of Arthur’s belt.

“A preference I feel we share, is that right, Mr. Fischer?”

"It is."

Arthur glances behind them at the heavy doors that have been locked for over an hour now, the same way he always does, as dictated in the script, then to the security cameras that he knows are from Saito’s personal collection of devices, not the company’s. “Mr. Saito,” Arthur says, “I’m not sure this is allowed.”

“This is my company. With you, Arthur, I encourage it.”

Arthur twists around a little as his slacks are unbuttoned, opening his mouth for Saito’s annoyingly sloppy tongue assaults. He pulls away after the designated six seconds have passed. Arthur's voice changes for a moment, filled with real concern. “Mr. Saito, please don’t,” he mutters quietly, his cheeks red as his slacks fall to his ankles. “People will see us. We should move back to the desk.”

“Hush,” Saito soothes, his hands petting Arthur’s hips and dragging up his thighs until the thin band of the dark blue thong he’s made Arthur wear catches on his fingers.

“Hm,” the man on the phone says after a while. “For some reason, I’d always assumed you were a bit more self-restrained than this. I’m impressed.”

Saito chuckles, pressing his erection in his pants firmly on Arthur’s ass, his fingers twisting and looping in the blue band, teasing Arthur’s ticklish hips until Arthur groans, unhappy. He brings his hand down hard on Arthur’s hip, warning him to keep silent. “I want to make you offer,” he explains to the other man. He pulls Arthur’s tie off and unbuttons his shirt. “Of course, I cannot sell you the car without advertising it first.”

Arthur bites his lip but the faint moan still comes out. Saito’s hands feel as big as Eames’ when they both delve into the front of his little thong, nearly pulling a seam when the fabric stretches. His head falls back, his hands pressed to the glass. Anyone can see them, but the employees in the floors below the other man’s office are too busy working to notice. It makes Arthur’s head swim.

“Point taken,” the man says after a while of watching Arthur squirm against the glass. "So what are the specifics of this deal of yours?”

His hands are back at Arthur’s chest, toying his nipples. “Marcus Harold just informed me that you have an interest in buying the house he’s selling in the Hamptons.”

“Perhaps.”

Saito smiles into Arthur’s hair. “Change your mind.”

This is another of Saito problems: his arrogance. Whether or not he can offer Arthur enough money to sleep with this man in exchange for a mansion, Saito simply isn’t concerned. ‘No’ is not a word that graces Arthur’s lips when he’s in Saito’s presence.

“Can’t. The deal’s almost finalized.”

“Can’t or won’t, Robert?” He turns Arthur around, grabbing his ass as he kisses him deeply. Saito moans, low and content for a moment, when the cold glass on Arthur’s skin makes him gasp in Saito’s mouth.

Arthur clutches Saito’s hips, letting himself be crushed against the window. He’s lifted off of his feet with surprisingly strong arms, squeezing his legs around Saito’s waist.

“I’m going to fuck you especially hard, Arthur,” Saito says against Arthur’s jaw. “But I want to play with you more first. Do I have your consent?”

“Yes, Mr. Saito.”

By the time Arthur’s neck is littered with little hickies, Robert Fischer’s made his choice.

“Fine,” the man sighs, bored with a touch of roughness in his voice. “I’ll call him back.”

“Excellent. I’ll send Arthur’s contact information to you now.” He puts Arthur back on his feet and ends the call, watching Arthur walk back to his desk to send the email for him. “C.C. me in the email, Arthur.”

“Oh.” _Shit_. “Yes, Mr. Saito. I'll send it again.”

“You should always wait for my say before sending anything from this office, Arthur.”

Arthur’s shoulders sink. He bows his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Saito. I’ll resend it.” He does, but Saito’s belt is already in his hand again.

Arthur joins him back at his big table. Robert Fischer is still watching them. Another man on the floor just below his is now watching too, his hand in his pants. It makes Arthur’s skin crawl, but he still presents himself over the edge of Saito’s desk and tries not to make a sound at the expensive leather whistles through the air before it raises faint marks on Arthur’s flesh again and again for the third time today. He stays put, still holding the desk as Saito puts his belt back in its loops.

Saito pulls the string aside to tease Arthur’s hole with a spit-slick thumb. Arthur hisses at the friction, arching into it when Saito’s free hand touches his back.

Saito wets his thumb and pushes it in slowly again. “Mr. Fischer thinks he’s going to observe our play, but he’s right.” His finger withdraws. Arthur watches him walk to one side of the window and press the button to lower the drapes. “I am self-restrained, indeed. Is that not right, Arthur?”

“Yes, Mr. Saito.”

For an hour more, Arthur sits at his desk, playing games on his phone with Giovanni and returns to the schedule. He makes himself a cup of coffee from the corner lounge area and brings Saito his late afternoon snack at 2pm before he dusts the bookshelves and fluffs up the couch pillows, still in his opened shirt and underwear.

“Arthur?” Saito calls, just after Arthur’s removed the emptied little plate and tidied Saito’s desk, “I want you to look at this for me. Check for spelling errors.”

Arthur already knows that there are none, but he obliges. He leans over the desk as Saito sits back in his chair, his hands steepled in his lap as Arthur reads.

The hand that finds its way on the small of Arthur’s back is normal. It’ll be sliding down his ass to nestle between his legs by the time Arthur’s scanned the third paragraph. Sometimes, Saito will only touch and then let Arthur go back to his own desk to work for an hour more before he finally fucks him and sends him home, but today, his second conference call has been moved up to 3:30pm, so the schedule must change again as well.

“You’ve missed an error in this line here,” Saito points from his notes to the computer’s document. 

“Oh. I’m so sorry, sir." He holds in his heavy sigh as he lies over the table again. He's pleasantly surprised, however, when Saito spanks him with his hand instead of the belt.

“You disappoint me, Arthur.” He traces the thin fabric of Arthur’s underwear, grabbing it to hold Arthur in place.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Saito,” Arthur mutters, jerking slightly away from each smack of Saito's hand. 

The hand comes down again, harder. “The mistake was careless.”

“Yes, Mr. Saito.”

“You know you are not allowed to make mistakes.”

“It won't happen again, Mr. Saito.”

When Arthur's ass is red, his skin tingling and his shirt now on the floor, Saito sits down again and turns him to sit on the desk. His hands sweep up and down Arthur’s tightly closed legs, greedy to touch all of him. "Arthur, did you remember to forward me the Goldman contacts?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the Whitmans have reservations and a car ready for them?"

"Yes, Mr. Saito. A car will be waiting for them as soon as they land."

"Perfect."

Those big hands playing with the thong strings reminds Arthur briefly of Eames. He smiles a little, getting hotter the more he thinks of the man waiting for him at home.

Until, that is, Saito reaches for the bottom drawer of his desk.

Arthur’s shoulders sink. He frowns, a little whine rising in his chest that makes Saito chuckle. “Do we have to today?”

“For me to pay you one month’s salary for one day’s work? Yes. Besides,” Saito smiles, stacking the boxes on the table, “I have several new ones to share with you.”

“How many?”

“Five more.”

Arthur’s jaw clinches for a moment as he suppresses his panic. He glares. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for that, Mr. Saito. It wasn't in the job description.”

Saito is so sure of himself that he doesn't even hesitate. “Two months’ salaries, then.” 

Two salaries, coming from _any_ company, let alone this one, will be more than enough money to open up another safe house in the city, maybe one in DC as well. The options are endless. Arthur sighs, hating the man's chuckle of victory. “Sir, I promise you, I can make a blowjob just as interesting if you let me try.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Saito chides, “these are all still very smooth. See?”

The first little Montblanc box he shows Arthur is made of polished wood. Inside the silk-stuffed box is a heavy ballpoint pen, gold-trimmed and shining black.

“It’s pretty,” Arthur says. He means it. “And expensive.” He has an eye for such things now.

“Four-hundred and eighty dollars,” Saito tells him, proud.

“So, not the most expensive one in your collection, then, by far.”

“Precisely.”

Arthur sucks on it when Saito puts it to his lips.

“See? Smooth.”

Arthur sighs again, his tongue swirling around the pen, wetting it. He picks up the rich handkerchief and box. He makes himself comfortable, propped up on his elbow, his legs spread wide. He’s quiet, polishing the already spotless box as Saito pulls the string of his thong out of his way and carefully eases the pen inside him until only the cap is out. It’s no bigger than a finger, but there is still a whole stack of boxes left to polish.

The second box is leather, the emerald green and gold pen a little bigger, the gold engraved. Saito puts it in Arthur mouth, his eyes dark, his hold on one pale thigh gripping tighter, his brow creased in concentration. Arthur blushes deeply, trying not to rock his hips when Saito fucks him slowing on those two pens.

His head falls back when the third goes in. His brow furrows on the fourth.

"Did you remember to separate the files I sent you?"

The question is so random, Arthur's brain has to reboot before he can answer. "Y-yes...sir."

Another pen is removed from its box and pressed in the center of the rest of them.

"Is my tea brewing?"

Arthur has to bite his lip not to curse at Saito when he glances over at the lounge, shivering. He nods in answer. It's all he can do. 

Each one is more expensive than last.  _This_  is what Arthur loathes almost more than everything else about this man. The writing pens on his desk are only, at the most, two hundred dollars apiece – a price that’s completely ridiculous to Arthur no matter how pretty and fine they are. These other pens however, in their polished boxes, in their special locked drawer, cost an upwards of four-hundred, nine-hundred, even three- _thousand_  dollars, and yet they only see the light of day once a month, once a month for Saito to use them as high priced sex toys for his high-priced hooker. If Arthur could stuff the handkerchief down Saito’s throat and pawn these boxes for charity money, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Right now, however, he’s panting and shaking, trying to keep his legs opened as yet another slips inside him.

“You’re enjoying this,” Saito rumbles. “More than the last time.”

It’s true. When the seventh slides in, he’s gripping the table, his legs trembling. Little sounds fall from his lips. “Mr. Saito, please… I can’t… No more.” But he does, keening softly and slumping back on the desk, his back arched.

Everything about this degrades him, but that’s why Saito loves doing this the most. Forcing submission and pleasure out of Arthur's body through humiliation. Like the time he demonstrated his love of kinbaku by binding and suspending Arthur naked from the ceiling for an exclusive dinner party in Kyoto, where the guests were all encouraged to paint erotic and vulgar things on his skin. To Saito, the actual sex is always an afterthought.

Arthur bites his bottom lip, holding in all the choice words he has for this man right now, because Saito might be stroking his cock through his trousers, but he can and will fire Arthur in a second if given a reason. He squeezes tears from the corners of his eyes and groans softly, knowing he’s going to come all over the table if Saito doesn’t tell him to—

“Stop,” Saito commands, gripping the base of Arthur’s cock and balls so hard Arthur’s afraid he’ll bruise. Arthur whines pitifully, seeing the shiny silver cock ring Saito plucks up from his top drawer. The metal opens and closes as tight around him as Saito’s grip had been. The padlock slips into place underneath, holding the ring taut. The key is tucked in Saito's suit jacket. “Now, where were we?”

Arthur’s not even trying to polish the boxes anymore. He’s crying now, the handkerchief clutched in his hand. He's having a silent fit, but begging to come, even though he knows he’ll die if he doesn’t come, will only cost him another spanking.

There is still one pen left. Arthur isn’t sure if he’s coming or if it’s only more precome running down his cock, but its pouring in streams, a cry for release that Arthur won’t be granted until it’s over.

“ _Very nice_ ,” Saito murmurs, petting Arthur’s stomach. “I am pleased, Arthur.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, but doesn’t comment as Saito takes pictures of his handiwork. He hears the phone click softly when it’s set down on the table once Saito’s done. It’s the last thing he registers before his brain begins to short out. Saito removes the first pen from the center of the cluster and lets it clatter to the floor, then another, releasing the immeasurable pressure bit by bit off of Arthur’s painfully smushed prostate. He lets his head fall back again, his eyes closed, a soft sigh on his lips when the last two slip free. He’s beyond sore, but when Saito folds him in half, he remains pliant, feeling Saito pour lube down his hole.

"Such a good boy," he hears Saito whisper as he starts to unbuckle his belt.

Arthur's turned onto his stomach, his feet back on the floor. Saito runs a hand over his back and over his ass. The lube bottle’s dropped on the table hastily, his thong hung on a drawer knob. Arthur has to bite his lip again when Saito pulls his hips back.

When he’s pressed in as far as he can, Saito has yet another terrible idea. Arthur wants to bang his head on the table. He pushes his ass back, invitingly, hoping it might entice the man into getting on with what Arthur came here for, but he only gets his ass smacked hard enough to steal away his breath. He doesn’t dare move a second time.

The rope retrieved from a drawer slides under his stomach like a boa constrictor’s got him trapped in its hold. Saito pulls Arthur’s arms behind him, looping the rope around each one until his shoulders are pull back. The rope loops around his neck one time before Saito weaves simple binding knots down to his wrists.

Arthur gasps, suspecting that he’s leaking more precome onto the floor as Saito slams into him. He feels the table’s edge digging into his pelvis. Saito grips his hips, his wrists, the rope’s knots, whatever he can to keep his pace rough and deep.

Arthur knows why he does it. In Saito’s world, Arthur should be screaming on his cock, moaning about how good it hurts. Without that, he doesn’t believe Arthur’s enjoying himself—which Arthur isn't. Not really, not after Saito’s idea of foreplay, not when his orgasm is still trying and failing to break free of the locked ring, and certainly not with his arms bound and immobile. Still, Arthur’s not going to fake pleasure. He’s already heard enough from Eames that he’s a terrible faker. Saito would be livid.

He’s given a moment to regain some of his bearings when Saito pulls out, but he’d rather the jackhammering continue as opposed to straddling his lap. Arthur doesn’t fuss, however. He lets Saito kiss him for a moment and follows him into the chair once Saito’s comfortable. He grinds down on his cock slowly, able to enjoy the little ridges of the condom now that he’s controlling the pace. He savors this moment, knowing it won’t last long. 

He’s right. Saito begins to play with his nipples again. With his arms bound, there’s nothing Arthur can do about. His mouth waters as nausea creeps up his throat. He hates it, but he starts to bounce a little faster.

"Arthur," he's warned, his hip smacked, "slow down."

He doesn't. He'll be punished, but it's worth stopping Saito from touching his chest. He bounces harder, his brow creased and a little moan on his lips, tempting Saito to move Arthur's hips for him.

He takes the bait. "Stop," Saito grits out, catching those hips and lifting Arthur off of his cock. "Look at me."

It’s difficult to stand on such shaky legs, even more so when Saito covers his leaking cock with his hand. Saito’s patient gaze locks Arthur in a battle to regain control. Arthur knows the man isn’t happy. For some reason, that thought makes Arthur hot again, his orgasm building again. His hold isn’t tight. Saito doesn’t move to stroke him. He knows he doesn’t have to. Simply feeling that weight and the heat of his hand is enough to finally force a long, desperate moan from Arthur.

Saito smiles, little crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes as he makes Arthur moan again. “You want me to take this off?”

Arthur can only nod, moaning a third time when Saito’s fingers trace the lock and his perineum. If Saito would just free Arthur’s balls from the ring, it would be heaven, but Saito’s smile is fleeting.

“Arthur, what do you say?”

Arthur swallows. “P-please, Mr. Saito.”

Saito stands, shoving Arthur over the table again.

Now Arthur’s getting louder, feeling rough fingers torture his abused spot as Saito’s hand shifts from holding him in place to spanking his ass red again.

“Do you know why I’m punishing you again?”

“Yes, Mr. Saito.” Arthur chokes as his skin burns. “I didn’t listen to you, when you…when you told me to…oh god.”

Saito’s hand stills. “Finish your thought.”

Arthur moans in frustration and pain. “When you—”

“From the beginning.”

“I…didn’t listen to you…when you…told…me to…slow down?”

Saito’s fingers gently stroke down his length and over his perineum.

Arthur shivers. For a brief moment, he thinks Saito will let him come this way, but he’s pulled to sit in his lap instead, his bounds arms trapped between them, his head lolling back over Saito’s shoulder. He doesn’t move until Saito tells him how.

“Harder. Faster.”

“Yes, sir.” He stays on his tiptoes, his legs wide for more of Saito’s petting. His hips rise and fall, squeezing Saito’s cock on the way up. He almost loses his rhythm when Saito puts the key in the lock. Arthur pants, “Thank you…thank you, Mr. Saito.”

"Come." The ring clatters to the floor. Arthur wails, his whole body caught up in his release. He blushes, trembling, his come spurting out in long, thick ropes onto the floor.

He tumbles after it, landing on his knees when Saito pushes him from his lap, a hand at his throat and thumb opening his mouth. Arthur sticks out his tongue as Saito comes on his lips. It drips down his chin, but he doesn’t swallow. He waits for Saito to regain some of his composure and spits into the cup he’s offered.

Saito pets his hair, his chest heaving. He leans forward, cupping Arthur's face to pepper his cheeks with kisses of reverent praise. “Excellent work, Arthur," he whispers. "You always give me the very best of what I ask of you.”

“Th-thank you, Mr. Saito.” His hands fall forward, supporting his tired body once the rope is cut. All the while, Saito rubs his back, his sore ass, his neck, almost lovingly, still praising him with quiet voice.

Arthur takes a sponge, a towel, and a little bottle of cleaning solution out of another drawer once the petting ends to clean up his mess. 

The conference call is right on schedule. If Arthur wasn’t so drain, so focused on his task, he’d laugh at the fact that a meeting is now actually being held while he’s cleaning his come off the floor, naked, while Saito’s watches him with his pants still open, completely exposed. It's absurd.

And what is this important meeting about? Golf strategies. Apparently the young, bored Robert Fischer is terrible at golf and Saito and these other men are forming a plan to make the man more fit for the sport.

His knees ache, but Arthur makes sure to scrub the floor until it shines like the rest of the hardwood. When he’s done, he stays on his knees, sitting patiently as Saito’s call comes to a close.

“Will that be all for today, Mr. Saito?”  

“Yes, unfortunately.” Saito stretches before standing to fix and inspect his clothes.

Arthur helps, smoothing out Saito’s fine waistcoat and tie. He tilts his head. “That’s a very nice watch,” he comments, bending over to retrieve his own clothes.

Saito watches him slip into his underwear and shirt before glancing at the watch. “You have good tastes.”

“Speak for yourself.” Arthur smiles just a little, deciding that he’s going to take Eames shopping for a good set of watches soon.

Saito moves to take his off, but Arthur steps back, his brow arched. “No, no, no. No thank you.”

“I never buy you anything like this.”

“What would your wife say if you came home without it?”

“She did not buy me this watch. It’s yours.”

Arthur stops him again. He keeps his voice light, teasing, even though he wants to slap him in the face. “Mr. Saito, I’m your secretary, not your mistress.”

Saito chuckles. “Very well.”

This isn’t the end of it, Arthur knows. Saito has his mind made up. He will give Arthur gifts from now on, some way or another, just to override Arthur’s refusal because he hates when Arthur refuses him anything, even something so trivial. And he will demand that Arthur accept them, wear them, like brands of his ownership, when he sees Arthur again.

Saito’s eyeing him as Arthur collects his coat and briefcase. He walks him to the door of his office where his real secretary sits at her own office, waiting to escort Arthur out.

“I will contact you in two weeks to plan for your next visit. Until then, Arthur,” the weight of the watch slipping into Arthur’s coat pocket is heavy. He sighs as Saito’s hand leaves the small of his back. “Thank you, for your services.”

Arthur gives him a small, coy smile, happy to leave.

+

 

When Eames was still in prison and Arthur was alone in the city, Arthur had a ritual.

He would come home after work and cry on the couch, then shower, brush his teeth, take a bath, clean the already spotless condo, have some coffee, eat a cake, and then sit on the patio with a textbook and a strong drink before going to bed to cry some more.

But he’s got a man to take care of now. The ritual has changed.

When Saito’s private car drops him off in front of the lavish building, he races up to his floor and immediately sets about preparing a meal. Today’s dinner will be Eames’ favorite. He gets the fish ready for marinating and chops up the vegetables for roasting. By the time his shower, teeth brushing, and bath—where he cries just a little—are done, he plays classical music in the stereo system and puts the trays in the oven to bake. He mops the floor, rotates the pans and flips the vegetables for an even browning, vacuums, and polishes the furniture. By the time he hears the key turn in the lock, he’s setting the table.

Eames smiles, looking like he's still a mugger in his hat and baggy workout clothes. "You never fail to look adorable in those big oven mittens and my clothes." 

Arthur glances down at the sweatpants hanging precariously on his hips and the t-shirt he's stolen. He blushes. “Hey.”

Eames has to catch him with a firm hold at once or else Arthur won’t let Eames kiss him. He never means to avoid Eames, but it happens. He needs time and space for himself, but he doesn't ever tell Eames this.

Eames squeezes his arms, his forehead pressed to Arthur’s to make him look him in the eyes. “I smell bleach and pine-scented polish,” he teases. “Had a rough day, have we?”

Arthur stares at him and his imploring, soft gaze. There are always times like this when he will want to go one way and Eames will force him go the opposite route, so to speak. In this moment, that means that the distance Arthur needs right now is still currently being denied him. However much older he gets, Arthur still doesn’t understand why force is the default with the men who handle him. Arthur hates so much that prison has chipped away at some of what made Eames different from other men, because this too is now Eames’ default. Force, even when he means to be gentle.

Today, however, when Arthur tries to slip out of Eames’ still too-tight grasp, the man checks himself and lets him go. Now Arthur can relax.

"Sorry, baby, I was just happy to see you, that's all."

“Sit.” He takes Eames’ coat and backpack. “How was your day?”

Eames grunts and shrugs, still eyeing Arthur as he gets in his chair. “It was fine. Missed you, though. Always.”

At that, something cracks in Arthur as he stands beside Eames’ chair. His heart feels hot. He can feel it beat when he puts a hand over his chest. It’s been frozen since he woke up this morning. It begins to thaw, hearing Eames say that. He leans forward and kisses the top of Eames’ head. “I missed you too.”

Eames’ meal portions are always massive. Arthur brings out the baking pan and prepares a batch of Eames’ favorite cupcakes to put in the oven before joining him at the table with his own little plate, smiling and blushing as he watches Eames go into raptures over his cooking between his own forkfuls.

Arthur worries though. Eames has finished his two servings but hasn’t stolen anything off of Arthur’s plate.

His shoulders sink. “Was it good?”

Eames laughs at Arthur’s expression, making Arthur’s ears red. He smiles. “You make it seem as if you don’t already know.”

“I don’t know." His whole day is ruined now. "You didn’t like it?”

“Baby, don't be silly. I loved it. I love everything you put in my mouth. But you need yours. I don’t like when you don’t eat. It makes me nervous.”

“Sorry.”

“For?”

Arthur shrugs at his plate, chewing on a carrot.

Eames sighs and gets a hold of Arthur’s chair, intent to pull it towards him, but he pauses and instead moves his own chair over to Arthur. He kisses his cheek. “Oi, what's wrong with you, kid?”

Arthur studies Eames as Eames studies him. He huffs out a short laugh. “I hate rich people.”

Eames laughs too. He knows that Arthur himself is worth millions. This condo alone costs at least two or three, thanks to Giovanni’s generous hand, but… he understands what Arthur means. Arthur’s world now is wealth. It’s in every social circle, every ‘client,’ every stitch of silk and clasp of gold, but Arthur will always be the same little boy from the streets with a little cigar box and a backpack.

What was it said, that Arthur had overheard from a neighbor about Eames? That he ‘smelled of jail?’ No doubt, those same people had a thing or two to say about Arthur as well, when they thought he couldn’t hear them.

“What’s this man drive, the one you were with today?” Eames asks, his hand massaging the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur eyes him, suspicious. “Maserati Ghilbi. New model. Black, twenty inch Urano diamond designed rims…why?”

Eames nods. “I could nick it. Drive it into the Hudson for you. With him in it, too, if it’d make you stop being so…spooky Stepford, kitty cat.”

Arthur smiles a little, shaking his head at Eames. The oven timer rings. “You could just wait until after the cupcakes have cooled first before you eat all of them. That would make me happy. Save me one and I’ll even give you a back rub.”

Eames snorts. “Not a chance. Sorry.”

Eames gobbles up most of the cupcakes before Arthur can frost them. It makes Arthur smile, picking crumbs out of Eames’ beard.

“Hey, hey. Stop that.” Eames catches Arthur’s hands, kissing them.  “I was saving those crumbs. Come here.”

Arthur turns back to the kitchen. “I could just bake more?”

“ _Or_ ,” Eames says, sliding his arms around Arthur, swallowing him in a hug, “you could relax?” He sways with him a little, flexing his arms. “Yeah?”

A little more of him thaws as he lets Eames hold him. He blushes deeper. He wants to oblige Eames’ request, but he’s exhausted and it fills him with guilt. “In a bit, we can…” Sex is the very last thing on Arthur’s mind. He almost falls asleep standing against Eames. He takes a step back. “I just have to—”

“Nope.”

Arthur looks around the condo looking for more things to do as Eames guides him to the couch. There’s still the pile of dishes in the sink, but Arthur’s pushed to sit.

Eames flops down, nearly on top of him. “Now, let’s see what’s on tv.” His hand travels under Arthur’s shirt to rub his back and massage his neck. “This looks promising. Forensic Files. I can tell you all the shit these killers get wrong when it comes to destroying evidence and hiding bodies, yeah?”

A part of Arthur knows Eames is talking just to fill the air between them with words. He could be reciting the alphabet backwards for all Arthur knows. That hand at his neck is shorting out Arthur’s brain. “Yeah…”

“That feel good, baby?” Eames turns him a little to get both of his big hands on Arthur’s shoulders, rubbing and kneading his soft skin, saying nothing about the hickies on Arthur’s neck. Not tonight, at least. Tomorrow they might bicker about it, but tonight, Eames kisses Arthur’s skin just long and hard enough to ease a moan from Arthur. His hands do the rest. “This is much more therapeutic than mopping, isn’t it, baby?”

“ _Mhmm_.”

“Tell me where.”

“ _Everywhere_.” His eyes won’t even open anymore. His head lolls. He goes down on the couch easy, moaning into the soft pillows as Eames unfolds his legs and straddles his legs. His palms dig in deep where Arthur’s quiet and soft as a whisper over the places that make him moan.

Eames’ hands work down to the small of his back, bunching up his shirt. Arthur’s pants slip down in lower on his hips when he’s turned and pulled to lie on top of Eames.

“Feel better?”

“Little bit.”

Eames’ hands return, slipping just under his pants to rub his ass, then up his spine, his ribs, his shoulders, down his arms, then again in the same slow, easy pattern. He trails his fingertips up and down Arthur’s back in circles.

“He tied me up again.” A whisper, like a secret that makes Eames’ hands still.

“Damn,” Eames whispers back. “Don’t go back to him.”

“No, no, I'm... I’m okay.”

Eames sighs into Arthur’s hair, his voice steady but Arthur knows he’s got a storm brewing in his head now. “Are you sure, Arthur?”

Arthur takes a minute to really think before he answers, because Eames will know if he’s lying. “Yes, Mr. Eames. I’m okay.”

In the morning, he’ll send Saito’s money to Lydia and the girls and boys at the safe house. They’ll get new bunkbeds, laptops, medication, clothes…whatever they want. Arthur takes a deep breath as Eames resumes his petting. Today wasn’t such a bad day after all.

By the time the killer on Forensic Files is found, Eames’ hands have lulled Arthur into blissful sleep. Eames slides him off so that he can carry him to bed.

Arthur’s sweatpants come off easily. Eames slips him into underwear and the little shorts he likes to sleep in, pulling the covers over him once he’s made sure Arthur’s comfortable. Eames yawns, surprised by how early the hour is.

The bedroom door closing startles Arthur awake a little. He rolls over to find that the bed’s empty. For a moment he panics, confused and thinking that Eames is still locked up, but the light’s still on in the kitchen. It shines faintly under the closed door. Beyond that, as he dozes again, he can hear Eames humming and the water turn on in the sink, the dishes clinking together as he washes them for Arthur.

++

+

 

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> For more drabble requests, questions, inspiration pics, and updates for this fic series, go to grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com


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